Roderick’s Widow Read online

  For a moment, she thought she saw a flash of regret in his eyes, but he blinked, and the cold expression returned.

  She lifted her chin and forced her expression into a cold smile.

  “It was such a pleasure to speak to you again,” she said. “Please, excuse me.”

  Clutching her little dog in her arms, she hurried past them and out onto the street. Only then did she slow her pace and allow herself to breathe.

  She could withstand loathing and censure from members of society, in fact, by now, she expected it. But not from him. Deep down, she’d always hoped a part of him still cared about her.

  But it wasn’t the calling of his heart that gave rise to the pain threatening to crush her. It was the calling of hers.

  Ross Trelawney might harbor irrevocable hatred for her, but Alice still loved him.

  Chapter Two

  “I never expected to see her out in public so soon after her release. But I suppose her father must tire of her plaguing him with her insanity about the house.”

  Ross didn’t respond. Kitty’s allure was matched only by her cruelty.

  “My love, would you not agree?” Kitty’s voice took on a hard edge.

  She curled her lush mouth into a sneer, her beautiful face turning quite ugly for a moment. Her eyes glittered with spite. They were such an extraordinary shade of blue, Ross had once thought he could dive into them and forget past loves won and lost. But gratification in bed only partially numbed the pain. As all rational creatures knew, pain relief was an illusion which alleviated only the symptoms. In order to truly heal, a man needed to address the origin of his suffering.

  The origin which had invaded his senses so rudely in Hyde Park today.

  Were Kitty any other woman, he might have believed she was attempting to ease his pain. But he knew her too well. An accomplished courtesan, she’d lasted longer than most in her profession, using her predatory sexuality to secure the bodies and hearts of many. Rumor had it, she’d amassed a fortune. Her talents as a businesswoman almost surpassed her talents in the bedchamber.

  Purring with sensuality, she caressed the lapels of his coat, brushing the skin of his neck, almost as if by accident.

  But Kitty’s actions were always deliberate, planned with precision to get what she wanted. She traced the outline of his mouth, then leaned forward. Full lips brushed against his, and she swept her tongue along the seam of his lips, probing, demanding entrance. He remained motionless, and a frown rippled across her forehead.

  Hard, insistent little fingers fumbled at the buttons of his breeches, and a hand slipped inside. His groin twitched in response, and she gave a little mew of victory as she circled his girth and rubbed the base with her thumb, using her knowledge of his body to render him powerless in her hands. He gasped as he hardened almost instantly. She seized the moment and plunged her tongue inside his mouth, claiming him in triumph. Teeth grazed against his bottom lip, and a spike of pain shot through him as she bit down, and he tasted the metallic tang of his blood.

  Punishment for his earlier reluctance.

  He grasped her shoulders and pushed her back. “Enough.”

  Ignoring him, she tightened her grip, but this time his body failed to react. The memory of another woman doused his pleasure as if ice-cold water had been poured down his front, and his manhood softened. Undeterred, Kitty undid the rest of his buttons, slid to her knees, and pulled him free from the restraint of his breeches. He fisted his hands in her hair as if to pull her away, but she forced herself forward, and a groan bubbled in his chest as her warm, wet mouth enclosed him. He closed his eyes, and the image of a face swam before his mind’s eye. Not the perfectly painted face of a woman bent on seduction, but another face.

  A face most deemed insipid. Fine porcelain skin, a bone structure so delicate, he’d once thought she might snap in two if he held her too tight. Eyes which, though blue like Kitty’s, held a more benign shade. Not as vivid as that of a seductress who used her vitality to ensnare the men in her path, but a clearer shade, like that of a freshwater lake.

  But those eyes had deceived. Ignoring the counsel of all his friends Ross had given her his heart, and she’d drawn him closer, like a siren, before dealing the blow which shattered his heart.

  And now she had returned the Deranged Duchess.

  A cruel title, but she’d earned it. The scandal surrounding her husband’s death had kept the journalists busy for weeks.

  Ross hated Alice for what she’d done. Why, then, did she plague his waking thoughts? Why did he look at the woman at his feet now, pleasuring him, and wish it were another?

  Alice…

  A murmur of pleasure vibrated through him as the woman kneeling at his feet took him deeper into her mouth.

  “Mmm, my love,” she murmured. “I’ll soon drive all thoughts of the Deranged Duchess from your mind…”

  Kitty’s words broke the spell, and he pushed her away and buttoned his breeches.

  She rose to her feet and wiped her mouth. “Are you unwell, my love?”

  “Jealousy doesn’t become you, Kitty.”

  “I know not what you speak of.”

  He almost laughed. “You may be skilled in maintaining the demeanor of the goddess who rises above human weakness, but you cannot conceal your emotions from me. My years at the card tables have taught me much.”

  She began to unlace her corset. But his ardor had cooled, frozen by the memory of the only woman he had given his heart to.

  “You speak nonsense, Ross, my love.”

  “Do I?” he asked. “A gamester conceals his emotions in much the same manner when he has no wish for his opponent to recognize when he has a losing hand. I first noticed it in you, my dear, while we were negotiating out arrangement.”

  “If I recall,” Kitty said, “you did not view me as a player with a losing hand. In fact, you were eager to gain possession of all the cards I held.”

  “All except the one bearing your offer for exclusivity in exchange for an increase in my stake.”

  “It was your choice to reject exclusivity of my hand, Ross, not mine.”

  “And a wise choice it was, my dear. Do you think I was foolish enough to place a bet when I knew the horse would never run? Your reputation preceded you. Not only the reputation for pleasuring a man—one which, I might add, is richly deserved—but your reputation for stamina and the ability to deliver your wares to all corners of the market.”

  “And now you wish to enter into the same game as I,” she said. “Having grown tired of the goddess, you seek to seduce a demon?” She pulled at her corset and let it fall to the ground. Her breasts spilled over the lace trim of her chemise, deep, red nipples poking through the delicate pattern.

  The demon. The Deranged Duchess. Derided and ridiculed, even behind closed doors. She deserved to be punished for having allied herself to that monster, Roderick Markham.

  But to see the derision of others so close at hand, others who had no reason to attack her other than for gratification and entertainment…

  Kitty ran a fingertip across the front of her gown, dipping it between her breasts.

  “I understand there was a time when you were partial to her yourself.” She traced a line across one breast until she reached the nipple. Her nostrils flared as she pinched it, and she let out a little gasp of pleasure.

  But the pleasure was false. Kitty was a fool if she thought he believed she took equal pleasure from the men she serviced. Courtesans were accomplished actresses, playing the part of the loving, walking companion, the well-pleasured bedmate…

  But it was all an act in order to garner a living.

  Cold, hard cash. The men who fell for Kitty’s charms were darned fools. Ross would never be fooled by a woman—any woman—again.

  “I am partial to no woman, my love,” he said. “I never have been. I value my soul too much. Once your heart is given to another, your soul follows. You, of all people, should understand that.”

  She pouted in
mock disappointment. “Surely you must have loved your late wife?”

  Caroline…

  Guilt twitched at him, and he ground his teeth to drive it out. The memory of her sweet face still plagued him. Mild-mannered, curvaceous with thick, dark locks, she had been the perfect diversion for a man with a broken heart. She was in her fifth season when he’d offered for her, and he had basked in her family’s gratitude. A sweet, biddable companion, Caroline had possessed every quality he desired, save one.

  She was not Alice.

  His relish at her sweet-tempered obedience had soon turned to dust, eroded by guilt as he tried—and failed—to feel anything but bland affection for her. Even when she entered her confinement, heavy with his child, he had failed to nurture anything akin to passion.

  And Caroline had known. The last time he saw her, she’d taken his hand, uttering the words of forgiveness he could not begin to deserve. As if she’d known the end was near, she had made him swear an oath. The prospect of an heir had driven away any sense of foreboding, and he’d complied.

  Promise me, Ross. If I die, you must promise never to marry another unless you love her to the exclusion of all others. I will rest easy if I know you have spared yourself the pain of loving without any hope of having that love returned.

  The casual laugh he’d uttered as he made his promise still tortured his dreams. How easily he’d dismissed her, not once believing the birth of their child could take her from him. He’d only looked forward to the days when he could atone for not loving his wife by being the best father to their child.

  But little Amelia’s entry into the world had killed her mother. Try as he might, each time he looked into his daughter’s eyes, Ross failed to shake off the image of Caroline’s gentle plea. It was as if her mother constantly stared back at him, reproachfully, from the grave.

  He shook his head to dispel the memory.

  “My wife is no concern of yours,” he said roughly.

  “Come, Ross!” Kitty laughed. “Death does wonders for one’s career as a lover. It places you on a pedestal, to be remembered with reverence and love. Nobody speaks ill of the dead.” Her eyes glittered with renewed spite. “I’ll bet the Deranged Duchess mourns her late husband daily. She’s had two years in a madhouse to think of little else.”

  Ross curled his fingers and dug them into his palms. The sting of pain diverted him from the need to wrap his hands around Kitty’s throat and choke the evil words from her.

  He’d seen Kitty’s behavior in the park, her attempt to convince him Alice’s retorts had caused her pain. But the only pain Kitty ever felt was physical, and she took pleasure from it, squirming with delight every time he brought his hand down on her thigh, her skin reddening with lust as she bared herself to him and begged him to punish her.

  Real pain could not be faked. Like it or not, he saw it in Alice in the park. Her expression, the tremor of her body and the way she clung to that small dog in her arms. Her pain should elicit pity, not scorn.

  He sighed and reached for his coat.

  “Ross, you’re not leaving?” Kitty asked.

  He drew out a sheaf of notes and placed them in the usual bowl on the table beside her bed.

  “Here,” he said. “Buy yourself something pretty.”

  Her fingers reached for the money with the practiced movement of the seasoned courtesan. Her eyes widened as she counted them, taking on the air of greed, before she lifted her gaze to him, and an expression of concern raked across her brow.

  “Consider the extra amount as a parting gift, in addition to my usual contribution to your lifestyle.”

  “A parting gift?” The undertones of fear in her voice spoke of desperation. He might have felt sorry for her, had she not revealed her relish in taunting a weaker soul.

  “I’m sure a woman of your talents will soon find solace in another’s arms,” he said. “But take heed, my dear. Fucking can only get you so far in this life.”

  “It’s served me well to date,” she said, “and you’ve never complained. When you screamed my name and ordered me to spread my legs for you, were you thinking of your precious Alice? Or your dead wife?”

  Anger swelled within him. If a man had said as much, he’d have called him out—bloodied him with his sword. But real man did not hurt a woman, no matter how much the provocation.

  “You’ll find another benefactor,” he said. “I’ll wager in a matter of hours your dance card will be filled again. Try Dominic Hartford. He’s just returned from France and, I’m sure, is eager to find a companion able to match the prowess of Parisian whores. I’d be glad to give you a reference.”

  He moved to the door and opened it, then stopped, turning to look at her one last time.

  “Who knows,” he said. “He may even be able to teach you a thing or two. Consider it an opportunity to increase your repertoire of talents.”

  He closed the door, straightened his cravat, and slipped outside.

  The cold night air caught him, and he hunched his shoulders and increased the pace. The long walk to his own townhouse would serve to cool his discomfort brought about by the renewal of his memories of her.

  Alice.

  A pitiful creature she’d looked when he saw her two years ago, sobbing over the corpse of her husband, her skin a sickly gray color, her frame nothing more than skin and bones. She’d put on weight during her incarceration, but the haunted look still lived in her eyes.

  He would never forgive her, but at least he could bring himself to pity her.

  His daughter claimed what little love he had remaining. As for Alice, pity was the only emotion he had left.

  Chapter Three

  As Alice entered Hyde Park, she turned left, rather than right. With luck, in another part of the park, she’d be spared another confrontation with him.

  “Come along, Monty.”

  The sharp wind rippled through her dog’s fur. A light dusting of frost covered the path, punctuated by footprints—some solitary, most in pairs.

  Why was it that a person could only be satisfied if they were part of a pair? Society pitied a lone creature, more so if she was a woman. But did submission to a husband, or protector, improve the woman’s quality of life? One thing Alice’s marriage had taught her was the ability to observe, to perceive the human soul beneath the veneer of respectability. As Alice passed couples on the path, she studied each woman’s expression. Did the benign smiles hide a life of pain? Once away from the eyes of the public, did the gallant husband’s true nature emerge? A wife was her husband’s property, for him to treat as he saw fit.

  Of course, a single man was never to be pitied. He found solace in the arms of others, purchased either with promises of more or with coin.

  Is that what Ross had done after Alice had rejected him, found comfort in the arms of a wife who’d lasted barely a year, and then a line of mistresses?

  To Alice, the notion of a life in the power of another creature was infinitely more repugnant than the prospect of solitude. Yet Papa, over breakfast, had lectured her once more on the need to secure herself a second husband.

  A husband…

  Only last night, Roderick had entered her dreams, smashing through her consciousness. The image of his cold, blue eyes, the snarls of lust, the roars of anger, and finally the pain as the life left her body. The cycle would resume: fear, pain, despair, and grief. She may have grown immune to the physical pain, but the loss of each child destroyed a piece of her soul until there was almost nothing of Alice left.

  Voices whispered from behind. “Look! It’s the Deranged Duchess.”

  “Where?”

  A couple to her left shared a laugh. The gentleman’s boots clicked against the gravel of the path, to the rhythm of Roderick’s footsteps, the footsteps she had dreaded each night as they grew louder, approaching her bedchamber…

  She froze in fear, and her dog wriggled free, leapt to the ground, and ran ahead.

  “Monty!” she set off after him, weaving between th
e other occupants of the park who moved aside to let her pass as if they could not bear to be touched by her.

  She caught her foot against a stone, lost her balance, and crashed to the ground with a cry. The whispers increased.

  Sad, mad, Alice…

  Hold on to your children…

  They should never have let her out…

  Pain radiated through her knees, and she reached out to push herself up.

  Two hands clasped her arms and pulled her upright. She struggled to free herself, but he tightened his grip, and she screamed as panic consumed her.

  “Madam!”

  The rich, deep voice brought her to her senses, and she looked up. It was not Roderick’s ghost, but a living, breathing man. His expression bore the lines of experience, and gentle concern glowed in his mahogany eyes. An ancient, lined face surrounded by snow-white hair which thinned at the temples.

  “Are you all right, Duchess?”

  “My dog,” she panted. “I’ve lost my dog.”

  “No matter,” the man said. “Toddington, see to it, will you?”

  “Yes, my lord,” another voice spoke.

  “I m-must…”

  “Duchess, if I may be so bold, you’re in no fit state to run about the park. You have an enormous tear in your dress. My man will find him.”

  “But…”

  “My dear, I trust Toddington to find your dog, and you can trust me to care for you while he searches.”

  Trust. A state Alice would never see herself entering again. Yet, the deep familiarity of the man’s voice softened the edges of fear.

  A gentle hand took her elbow and guided her toward a bench where a couple were sitting. At a look from her savior, they rose and disappeared. He set her on the bench, then sat beside her. The smell of cigar smoke and woody spices drifted through the air. The comforting aroma of a benevolent uncle, which brought forth memories of happier times when Mama was alive.